Street Chic

by Anthony Whyte

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  77107

  Prologue

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  Epilogue

  Copyright Page

  77107

  Who you be?

  Met this two headed whore in midtown

  For skins, paid price, strapped up, tore it down

  One head on my jewels, the other sucking

  Working below stress, she wanted more

  I’m wisdom, mention me next time.

  “He who knows and knows he knows not;

  He is simple—teach him.”

  I dismissed her come on as yap.

  Others left chains and rings for less

  Diamonds and pearls served rich men

  “Shut your gap. Knowledge is power.”

  Was this trapping of my education?

  “He who knows not and knows not

  He knows not; he is a fool—shun him.”

  “At thirty, man suspects himself a fool;

  Knows it at forty and reforms his plan;

  At fifty chides his infamous delay

  Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve;

  In all the magnanimity of thought

  Resolves; and re-resolves; then dies the same.”

  I laid Edward Young, Night Thoughts on her

  “He who knows and knows not he knows;

  He is asleep—wake him.”

  Walking proudly, left a tip on her stand

  Lost in the trap, she hurled what I’d given

  Failing to understand, calling my offering

  Nothing more than chump change

  Accusing me of bringing false blessing

  “He who knows and knows he knows;

  He is wise—follow him.”

  Prologue

  Claire smiled when she saw the way the swarm of police scrambled for cover. Dodging and ducking from the tremendous firepower coming from the shotguns in her possession. She fired again and again from her perch in the iron-sealed old abandoned warehouse. Claire felt power building in her mind. The same power she felt when she was running the park. She thought she had lost it. Watching her adversaries retreat confirmed what she felt. Claire never wanted to ever relinquish that feeling. She smirked, nodding and waiting. A stretch of calm followed the barrage. The police moved into strategic position, but were unable to completely surround the entire building. Parts of it had disappeared below ground.

  The police were tactically retreating with complete realization that shots were coming from only one side of the warehouse. Realizing that the girls were outnumbered and outgunned, the police opened fire and unleashed heavy artillery. The loud sounds of explosion crashed into what had been the silence of the uneasy, but temporary cease-fire. Squads of trained police teams moved in on the warehouse, firing powerful caliber weapons. The resulting explosions spread around the girls like wildfire. They could see that the sun was beginning to set.

  “A fine pickle we’re in, big sis,” Candace said, loading her weapons.

  “Are you giving me the sad song, Candy?” Claire asked with sarcasm. She watched Candace clutching the weapons. “How’s it?” she asked.

  “We’re running out of ammo,” Candace answered.

  “I hear you, Candy,” Claire said.

  “I’d be damn if I’m gonna be cooped up in anybody’s prison, big sis,” Candace said.

  “Me too, Candy, me too,” Claire agreed.

  “I’m not afraid as long as you’re with me, big sis. I know Mimmy will be sad that we went out like this,” Candace said.

  “People got do what they got to if they want to make it. There is no right or wrong way, Candy.”

  “Oh man, what a nice day to go out, huh big sis…?”

  “Candy, it’s time,” Claire said, looking at the trap door.

  Candace scurried over to it and attached the explosive device to the latch on the door. She grabbed an M203grenade launcher and fired a grenade through the window. The concussion ammunition landed in the center of the police squad moving forward. They quickly fell back, racing behind cover and returning fire. Bullets crashed through the warehouse with deadly accuracy. One hit the explosive device on the lock inside the abandoned building, causing a major explosion. Flames and debris were hurled everywhere.

  “Take cover, take cover!” squad leaders sounded off.

  There were simultaneous explosions. Newsmen and camera crews jumped inside their news vans. Not far off, the situation was being closely followed by the occupants of a parked black sedan. Quietly observing the scene, Melanie, the only female of the three people occupying the car, shook her head. Pauli, the driver and right-hand man to his underboss, Goldie, made up the observing trio.

  “Some friend you are. If those two were in there, then they gotta be deep sixed now. C’mon, let’s get the fuck outta here,” Goldie said.

  “Ya right, nobody not even my girls could’ve survived that. And I love my girls. Now I gotta go buy something nice for their funeral,” Melanie said. Both men turn to look at her seated next to Goldie in the backseat of the Bentley. “Shame, shame, shame,” she continued. “They had so much talent, them two,” she continued, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing her eyes. “Too bad…”

  “Hey Goldie, let’s go find us a spot with some nice peppers and sausage,” Pauli said.

  “That’s a good idea, Pauli,” Goldie said. “Get me the fuck outta here.”

  “I know the perfect spot,” Melanie said between tears.

  They drove off leaving while the tactical squads were arriving. The police rushed into the destroyed warehouse and began searching through the rubbles. Shoulder to shoulder the units of the Miami Police and members of the FBI searched the destroyed warehouse. Their eyes were peeled for any evidence of the girls’ body parts. Nothing was found. The police assumed that they had to have been killed. Their bodies were totally demolished in the explosion.

  “I’m sorry, there’s no one or nothing in here,” the lieutenant said.

  “Nothing…?” The captain echoed in disbelief.

  “So far sir, no bodies, nothing… It’s like they vanished in thin air. There’s a canine unit on the way. We’ll get the dogs in there, but so far nothing…”

  “Good,” the captain said in disgust.

  He glanced around and walked away shaking his head. Seemingly caught up in sisters’ demise, Lt. Cooksey stared at detective Street.

  “Ha, ha, they deserve whatever they got,” Lt. Cooksey said, laughing triumphantly.

  Detective Street sat on the hood of the police cruiser watching him. She closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer for the two sisters.

  CHAPTER 1

  Sheryl Street sat in a rental car staring through dark shades at the crowd of people entering Ortiz funeral home next to Fort Tryon Park, uptown Broadway. Feelings of whether what she had done to bring her this day was right or wrong ran amok in her troubled mind. Through her torment she saw them gossiping. Most of them
she knew, they were from her old neighborhood at 179th Street and St. Nicholas Av.

  Emotions were being displayed on the sleeves of everyone who was in the place. She could see the tear-stained faces even though their eyes were hidden by designers’ shades. Sheryl didn’t know if she wanted to deal with facing them, but she knew she had to attend.

  A few more minutes went by and Sheryl took a couple of deep breaths. After adjusting her makeup, she got out of the car. Slamming the door shut, she turned and checked her appearance through the window. Her confidence was jarred and she slowly walked across the street. She was on her way to pay respect to the memory of Candace and Claire Osorio, her adopted sisters.

  However, instead of showering her with hugs and greetings, mourners outfitted in black were waiting to rip her to shreds. Their deadly looks met her every shaky step. A bevy of mourners and character assassinators outfitted in distress drabs, pointed fingers while staring her down.

  Digging her three-inch heels, black patent leather pumps into the floor, Sheryl held her head high without returning their threatening glares. She could feel the angry stares penetrating through the clothes that she wore. It didn’t help that she had to keep adjusting her top because her thirty four C’s were threatening to pop out. The outfit felt a little snug for any wake, especially this one, but it was all she had brought with her.

  “That chica really looks chic,” a mourner said.

  Street glanced to see the face and caught a nasty snare from a young girl on the arms of her boyfriend. They snickered and rudely pointed their fingers at her.

  “Yeah that’s the cop that cause all this,” the boyfriend scoffed.

  Clothes weren’t her only undoing. A change of mind could be costlier. She struggled with the decision she had made to attend. Sheryl did not plan on being at the wake, but changed her mind at the last minute. Entering Ortiz funeral home she immediately heard the dissent and started regretting her decision.

  “She got some nerves!”

  “That skank, that whore, she deserves a beat down!”

  The voices of angry relatives and friends rang in her head, and Sheryl glanced at the door, wanting so badly to change her mind. Maybe she could go outside and explain her side of the story. Tell family and friends who no longer wanted to speak to her about all the pain raging inside of her. She felt like running away from it all, but Sheryl had to face up. There was a force stronger than any she could resist and it swept her in through the doors, and passed the angry rants behind mean stares greeting her.

  Inside the small hall was set up like the inside of a small church. There were rows of benches on either side. Sheryl’s presence caused tension to crackle like electricity in a lightning storm. Holding her breath, Sheryl Street stood in the eye of the controversy and felt her stomach muscles tightening.

  Open chatter dogged her every move. She glanced without staring back and bit her lips. She released a heavy sigh while holding on to her emotions. Sheryl felt like breaking down and crying while making her way through the throngs of mourners. They turned their heads in the direction of the altar when she got close.

  On top of the altar, two red urns filled with ashes sat on a stand filled surrounded by burning candles. The urns contained the remnants of her enigmatic adopted sisters Candace and Claire Osorio. Sheryl stared for a beat when she saw the photos on the wall behind. Her tears flowed easily. She cried looking at video footage of the sisters playing basketball. Sheryl’s conscience fell on her like a ton of bricks. She was directly involved in their deaths. Sheryl felt sorry for having come back. Still she had to face Mimmy, the woman who had raised all three of them. There were women here who used to greet her with hugs, now openly scoffed at her.

  “Murdering cop, she really got some nerve showing her face round here after killing her own sisters,” one woman in the tightest black dress said.

  “But they weren’t no flesh and blood,” another noted.

  “Mimmy raised them all didn’t she?”

  “Boy, Mimmy’s coming soon. She’s bound to kick that tight-butt bitch outta here,” another suggested.

  Their men stealing sips of liquor from a flask, stared at her backside, accentuated in a tight, dark Armani pantsuit. Lecherous stares from men whose wives and girlfriends despised her, greeted Sheryl with guarded pleasantries.

  “I know you had to do what you had to do,” one older man said, letting his eyes rove over her body before continuing. “Especially with you being the law and all,” he smiled tastelessly, leering at her breasts.

  Sheryl Street eyed him uneasily, pursing her lips while assuaging the urge she felt to deck him. She managed to hold back the impulse and nodded politely. Others in the crowded church grimaced walking by Street. They looked her up and down, cutting their eyes when they realized who she was. Sheryl walked down an aisle that appeared longer because of the tension. She wanted to pay her respects, but felt thick walls of resentment slowly closing in on her.

  While waiting on a queue to get a closer look at pictures of the Osorio sisters, open whispers spilled around her. Sheryl felt sympathy for what she overheard in her quietness. She stared at the pictures of the girls. Closing her eyes and saying a silent prayer, Sheryl became caught up in a moment. It transferred her back to the time she first met Mimmy and her daughters. Sheryl was ten years old.

  She had been living in an immigrant neighborhood in Opa Locka, on the outskirts of Miami, with her mother, Carmen, a Cuban immigrant. Her mother’s boyfriend, Gilbert, would visit frequently and sometimes stay over. He was Haitian. Carmen was dependent on prescription drugs for her survival due to a bipolar condition. Often her mother would visit the local clinic and return at the end of the day with her prescriptions. One such day, Sheryl bade her mother goodbye and left for school. She knew her mother would be at the clinic all day and wouldn’t be back until later that day.

  That evening Sheryl waited patiently for her mother to come back from the clinic. She had hurried home from school and had not eaten. It was almost ten in the evening and her mother wasn’t around. The following morning Sheryl awoke in a frantic mess. She had been unable to sleep very well through the night, and had forgotten to eat.

  Even thought she was hungry and tired, Sheryl dragged herself to school. She raced home with anticipation beating in her heart. That evening Sheryl went to bed feeling depressed. The next day she still had not heard from her mother, and she still had not returned from the health clinic. After couple more days with no words or messages, Sheryl felt that her mother would never come back.

  Gilbert eventually came by and she quizzed him about her mother’s whereabouts. He provided her with no real answers. He was upset that she had his girlfriend had left without telling him, but he was irritated that he had to stay with her daughter. Gilbert guessed that she was at a friend’s home, but Sheryl didn’t seem to know exactly which relative’s home she would be living in. Sheryl remembered her mother threatening that she may have to survive without her. Her mother may have really wanted to leave but Sheryl never took her seriously. Gilbert, from his guesses never took her words seriously either. Now they both realized it was more than idle chat.

  Sheryl and Gilbert knew they were waiting in vain, but eventually developed a step-family relationship. Sheryl never knew her natural father. Gilbert told her he lived a short distance away from Opa Locka in the town of Little Havana. She stayed with her stepfather until, claiming he could no longer care for her. He brought Sheryl to live with Mimmy, his sister, in Washington Heights, New York City.

  Sheryl was thirteen and puberty had already set in. Mimmy helped her a lot in understanding what she was going through in her maturing young girl cycle. In this respect, Gilbert was right to bring her to his sister. Mimmy was kind to her when she was most in need of it.

  Without even a goodbye, Gilbert went back to Florida. Sheryl was left with Mimmy and tried to fit herself into a two bedroom apartment with two self-centered daughters and their drunken father. Candace and Claire w
ere young and pretty and hated sharing their room with Sheryl. They got away with everything and often blamed anything that had gone wrong on the newcomer. The sisters always stuck together against her.

  Sheryl replaced her dark shades and turned to walk back. She saw Mimmy coming toward her and stayed frozen in place. She had thought about what she would say and gone over the routine over and over in her head. Sheryl saw the older woman’s heavy make-up. It did nothing to hide the pain and exhaustion wearing her down. Sheryl stopped to let her by but Mimmy held her ground and didn’t budge. For what seemed like an eternity, the large woman’s cold stare shot mercilessly through Sheryl like laser beams, tearing up her insides, and leaving her twisted in knots.

  “I’m so sorry this had to happen…” Sheryl offered. Her emotions spilled over and her voice trailed.

  After an eternity, Mimmy hobbled by without saying anything. Sheryl watched the familiar limp as Mimmy sauntered away. The woman who had raised her since she was ten and taught her to be the best at whatever she wanted to be turned her back on her. Sheryl watched Mimmy’s gait. The robust woman had lost a step or two. It came from spending all those years being a nanny, and taking care of white kids on the upper west side. It was also that she had lost something special. Her two daughters had been her reason for living.

  Mimmy was a Haitian immigrant who had married a man, Carlito Rafael Osorio from Santiago in the Dominican Republic. The family wasn’t rich, but Mimmy did everything she could to provide for her daughters. Candace and Claire Osorio were really popular teens. They felt they had to keep up with the latest in fashion and be current with all the new trends. It was this craving that Mimmy sought to fill, but always seemed to be coming up a little short.

  Neither sister tried hard in the classroom. They were average students who attended George Washington High School. Tall and athletically inclined, the sisters played sports and helped garnered many championship titles for the school. They excelled in basketball, baseball, and tracks for the school. In the Heights, the sisters were famous. Judging by the attendance in the church, the Osorio sisters were still revered and love.